


La Cécité

by SirLancelotTheBrave



Series: Tumblr prompts and oneshots [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blindness, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Period-typical fear of disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLancelotTheBrave/pseuds/SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a routine mission, Porthos takes a blow to the head and loses his sight. Unsure if it will be permanent, he begins to question his place as a Musketeer and in Aramis's affections. Aramis shows Porthos he never needs to doubt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sorelh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorelh/gifts).



> For the tumblr prompt: I would love to read a fic in which Aramis and Porthos are lovers and during a combat Porthos gets hurt and he temporarily loses his sight. And he is scared he will never see again, and most of all scared he will become a burden to Aramis, that Aramis will leave him. But of course, Aramis would never do such a thing; he is there for him, taking care of him, reassuring him, comforting him… well, simply loving him.
> 
> This was meant to be a short prompt fill and is now pushing five chapters... Whoops ;)

The blow came out of nowhere.

One moment everything was going well. The mission seemed to be a success. Athos and D'Artagnan were rounding up the last of the criminals while he and Aramis freed the remaining prisoners. It was always a relief to end a mission with no injuries, and from the easy way Aramis was bantering with the freed hostages, flirting cheekily with the women, that he was just as relieved as Porthos.

He should have known it was too easy.

Aramis's shouted warning reached him just a second too late. He only had time to turn into the blow before the hilt of the blade struck the side of his head with enough force to drop him first to his knees, then send him sprawling into the dirt, thoughts constricting to a narrow point as the pain filled his consciousness.

He was vaguely aware of Aramis dispatching his attacker, and his frantic demands that _he wake up, answer me dammit, Porthos, please_ , but he couldn't respond. All he could feel was the pain and the nausea beginning to churn in his stomach.

Everything was black, and he found a vague, disconnected part of him wondering why he could still hear everything going on around him if he was unconscious. The pounding in his head had reached a crescendo, but even through the dizzying drumming in his ears he was aware that he would not be in pain if he were unconscious, so he must be awake.

Maybe something was blocking his eyes.

Aramis's demands were beginning to verge on terrified, and the tiny part of him holding onto awareness through the pain knew he had to do something to reassure him. Swallowing the nausea as best he could, he opened his mouth.

"'r'm's," he croaked, his tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth. He wished he could open his eyes, see Aramis's face, but they didn't seem to be cooperating.

It seemed his weak attempt had been enough, though. "Porthos?" Aramis asked immediately, and he felt hands on his face. His head was lifted gently from the ground until it rested against something warm and soft. He realized Aramis had pulled him into his lap.

"Porthos?" he repeated again, his voice still tinged with fear, and Porthos nodded clumsily, the movement sending pain forking across his skull. "'m 'ere," he slurred. "Wha's on m'eyes?"

"What's on your eyes?" Aramis repeated, sounding confused. Porthos felt fingertips on his cheeks once more, felt his eyelids flutter when Aramis's fingers ghosted over them.

Wait.

His eyes were _open_.

He blinked again, just to be sure, but there was no denying it. He could feel his eyelids moving, but all he could see was darkness.

"Porthos?" Aramis's voice was thick with concern, and he realized his breathing had sped up. "What's wrong?"

Porthos shot out a hand, scrabbling desperately at the air for a moment before his fingers connected with Aramis's jacket. He grabbed a handful of jacket and shirt and twisted his hand into a tight fist, trying to ground himself against the pain and the icy fear now shooting through him.

"Can't see," he whispered.

Aramis's breath left him with a hiss and he bent forward, hands lifting Porthos's eyelids. Porthos let himself be examined, trying to keep his thoughts away from the word trying to shove its way through the pounding in his skull.

"Anythin'?" he asked, and his voice sounded like a whimper through the buzzing in his ears.

Aramis's hesitation spoke volumes. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Like they're… bleeding… from _within_."

Porthos's hand on Aramis's shirt jerked convulsively as his brain tried to supply the word he was so desperately trying to ignore.

"It gonna stop?" he asked, not caring how weak he sounded in that moment.

Aramis's fingers slipped to rest against his jaw, as if offering comfort.

"I don't know."

The confession sounded as if it were torn from him, falling from his lips with all the weight of the executioner's axe.

"No," he moaned, shaking his head despite the pain it caused him. Welcoming it, because even pain was better than this reality. "'m blind."

"We don't know that," Aramis said, but his voice was desperate and shaky and gave Porthos no comfort. "We'll find a proper physician to consult. We'll get through this. Porthos?"

He didn't answer. His brain was caught in a loop, the word _blind_ chanting inside his head in time with the drumbeat pounding within his skull. He heard Athos's voice, and D'Artagnan's. He heard Aramis cut off their questions with sharp orders, and then felt hands on his shoulders.

Someone tried to lift him into a sitting position. His head spun sickeningly even without his vision and his stomach rebelled. He listed to the side and fell against someone's chest. He heard Aramis's voice for a second, sounding terrified and lost, but the pain was too great to reply, and after a moment the rest of his mind joined his vision in darkness.

* * *

Porthos woke to darkness. He wondered for a moment if Aramis had forgotten to light the candle again. He tried to turn his head to look about and pain shot through his skull, bringing it all back with agonizing clarity.

He was blind.

He could feel a strip of fabric knotted around his head. It sent nausea rolling through him as he remembered the beggars in the court with their bandaged eyes.

Porthos spent a long moment just breathing around the pain and the nausea and the panic creeping into his chest. He was so focused on keeping himself steady that he didn't pick up on the fact that he wasn't alone until someone shifted beside him.

He hated himself for the way he recoiled, startled into flinching away from the sound as he scrambled into a sitting position despite the pain in his head, his back resting against a wall he should have known was there. His apartment, then.

"It's just me," Aramis said softly, and he'd _known_ that, he had, but knowing it would be Aramis hadn't helped the sudden shock.

"Sorry," he offered after a moment. He wanted to reach out and touch Aramis, ground himself against something solid, but he couldn't bear the thought of groping helplessly like a blind beggar in the streets.

A moment later Aramis's hand came to rest against his shoulder, and he found himself pathetically grateful for the way the other man had always been able to read his mind.

He raised his own hand and followed the length of Aramis's arm until he figured out where Aramis was sitting on the bed.

He felt the mattress dip as Aramis shifted closer, and used the sound to bring his other hand up to catch hold of Aramis's shirt, pulling him closer still.

"Aramis…" he murmured, the security of knowing there was no one else to hear breaking down his defenses and turning the name into a quivering, uncertain thing.

And then Aramis was in his arms, pressing him heavily back against the wall with his warm weight, and the tight knot in Porthos's chest eased a bit as he buried his face blindly in the crook of Aramis's neck, clutching his lover against him like a lifeline.

Aramis's arms were tight about his waist, his cheek pressing against Porthos's hair on the uninjured side of his head while his hands were made small circles against his back.

"What am I gonna do now?" he asked after a moment, not lifting his head. With his eyes closed, he could pretend like he had nothing worse than a terrible headache after a long night of drunken indulgence.

"The king's personal physician came by," Aramis told him quietly. "Treville sorted that out somehow. He said there's a chance it won't be permanent."

"How big a chance?" Porthos asked, not daring to hope. He couldn't, he couldn't start hoping, not when his hopes could be so cruelly dashed.

Aramis didn't answer. "Not much, then," he muttered into Aramis's neck, fingers tightening where they were still twisted in the back of Aramis's shirt.

"We mustn't give up hope, _querido_ ," Aramis murmured.

"Easy for you to say," Porthos said bitterly. Aramis's fingers stilled their motions, and he instantly regretted his harsh tone.

"Sorry," he sighed.

He felt Aramis shake his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said seriously. "I know it will be hard for you to hold onto that hope. So I will simply have to hope enough for the pair of us."

Porthos's lips curved into a half smile, knowing Aramis would have that deadly earnest look in his eyes right now even without his vision.

"Deal," he whispered, touched despite himself, and pressed a kiss to Aramis's neck.

Aramis's grip tightened for a moment before he drew back slightly. "I will need to check your wound, _mon cher_ ," he said regretfully. "I stitched it as pretty as you like, but better safe than sorry."

Porthos snorted, taking comfort in the familiar routine as Aramis's hands went to the bandage wrapped around his head and began to unwind it. He kept his own planted firmly on Aramis's hips, grounding himself.

"So why's this other bandage on my eyes, anyway?" he asked to distract himself.

"The physician mentioned they might heal faster if they were kept closed," Aramis murmured. "Hold still."

Porthos hissed when the cloth tugged at his wound and felt Aramis's hand trail apologetically down his jaw before resuming his task.

"You've got a bump the size of a chicken egg, but the stitches are holding and it's already beginning to scab over," Aramis told him, winding a clean bandage around once more. "It should heal quickly. How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous?"  
Porthos shrugged as his hands tugged lightly on Aramis's hips, drawing him closer once more. "Bit sick, but not as bad as I woulda expected," he admitted.

He could feel Aramis's thoughtful gaze. "Perhaps the lack of sight mitigates those effects," he suggested. "If you can't see the world spinning, perhaps the nausea would be less severe."

Porthos bit his lips to keep from snarling at the phrase 'lack of sight.' _Call it what it is. Blindness._

"Your lodgings are small enough that you should be able to get around unassisted once your head has healed, and then all we have to do is wait until your vision returns as well," Aramis said, his voice gratingly cheerful. "You might be a bit bored for a time, but I'm sure-"

"What if it doesn't go away?" Porthos asked, his voice sounding terribly small. "What if I'm… blind… forever? Then what?"

He clenched his hands into fists, trying to breathe past the fear clutching at his chest. The thought of living without his sight was terrifying. He would lose his place as a Musketeer, lose his purpose in life. A blind man couldn't fight. And slowly but surely he would lose his friends too. D'Artagnan, Athos… _Aramis_.

"Porthos, breathe!" Aramis's voice cut sharply through his thoughts, edged with alarm, and he obeyed instinctively. Fingers rough with callouses cupped his jaw, rubbing soothingly across his cheeks below the bandage.

"I don't know what will happen," Aramis admitted softly. "But the Captain has promised you a place in our ranks for as long as you live."

Porthos's heart clenched with gratitude at the words, but he said nothing, not trusting himself to speak, unsure of how to tell Aramis what it was he most feared.

"And even if you never see again," Aramis went on, shifting closer to him, "You will still have me. You will never be alone, _mon cœur_."

Aramis's lips pressed suddenly against his neck, and Porthos let himself breathe a little easier. The fear faded, but it did not vanish.

What use was a blind Musketeer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know much about concussions, but some research I did suggested that a hard blow to the head could cause something called a vitreous hemorrhage, which is basically when the blood vessels in your eyes bleed into the jellylike substance between your pupil and retina. According to the internet, this can cause temporary blindness that usually clears up over time with minimal problems, so that's what I've gone with here. If I'm wrong, or anyone knows more, please don't hesitate to correct me!
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer, I know nothing about what it is like to be blind, and I don't mean to offend anybody. Porthos's mindset is simply meant to reflect the fears and self-doubt of a man who's place in the world is dependent on his sight.
> 
> More chapters will be forthcoming. For now, let me know what you thought in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Porthos's thoughts get pretty dark in this section, just a heads up.

By the time Athos and D'Artagnan came by later that morning, Aramis had coaxed him to his feet and had him taking careful steps around the room. His head ached, but not as badly as he'd expected.

Aramis was of the opinion that the blindness was lessening the effects of the concussion, staving off the dizziness and nausea that normally accompanied a blow to the head. He was being overly cheerful about it, but Porthos found it eased the tight knot in his stomach to hear Aramis blathering on about how well he was doing.

He wasn't doing well, not really. When someone opened the door, the unexpected noise startled him. He stepped back, into Aramis, and nearly sent them both crashing to the ground.

"Sorry!" cried D'Artagnan's dismayed voice. "Why are the hinges so loose on that door?"

Despite himself, Porthos grinned a bit at that. "Maybe if you didn't go throwing it open like a madman, the hinges wouldn't be broken," he chuckled.

"Our sincerest apologies," Athos said dryly. Porthos grinned despite himself, relieved that Athos's tone held none of the pity he had feared to hear. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"He says it doesn't hurt, and I believe him," Aramis said loyally, shoving him gently forward to stand on his own once more. "We're being careful, mother."

Athos snorted, and Porthos knew he would be rolling his eyes. Not being able to see it was unexpectedly painful.

"We are on our way to the trial for the men who attacked you," he said, amusement still tingeing the serious tone. "I thought to stop in and see how things were going."

"As well as can be expected," Aramis told him quietly. "You'll return after?"

Porthos missed Athos's response as bitterness swept through him unexpectedly, dousing the cheer he'd been clinging to for Aramis's sake. As well as could be expected, considering he was blind and helpless as a babe.

He kept his mouth shut while Athos and D'Artagnan bid them farewell. He could sense their concern at his silence, but to his gratitude they did not push him to speak as they left.

Aramis's hand on his elbow told him they were alone again, but when his lover tried to urge him into walking some more, he yanked his arm free.

"I'm done for today, I think," he muttered.

"Are you tired?" Aramis asked, instantly concerned, but the worry in his tone only served to blacken Porthos's mood further.

"I'm fine," he snapped, stepping blindly in the direction of the bed. When Aramis's hand fell on his arm once more to steady him, he wrenched it free and growled, "Don't touch me."

His foot connected with something solid and he stumbled. He would've fallen flat on his face had Aramis not caught him around the waist, taking an elbow to what felt like his chest for his pains.

"Let me go," he growled, but his heart wasn't in it. Was this to be his life from now on? Stumbling over his own feet, unable to walk without a hand on his shoulder?

Aramis ignored him, pressing closer and wrapping his arms about his waist. His chin rested on his shoulder as he spoke quietly. "Patience, _querido_. This will get easier."

"I don't want it to get easier," he snapped.

"I know," Aramis sighed, pressing a kiss to his neck. "Let me take a look at your eyes. Perhaps there's been some improvement."

He heaved a sigh but allowed Aramis to lead him to the bed and sit him down on the edge before unwinding the linen bandage wrapped about his eyes.

He'd only just pulled it off when a voice spoke from the doorway, startling them both.

"How's it look?" Treville's voice was calm, betraying none of his feelings. Porthos heard his footsteps as he entered the room properly.

Aramis's fingers brushed the skin beside his eyes, tipping his head. "No different," he murmured at last, sweeping is fingers apologetically along Porthos's jaw as he pulled back.

"Surely it's too soon to tell?" Treville asked.

"Oh, of course," Aramis replied. "I wouldn't expect to see any improvements for at least a week or more." He carefully rewound the bandages.

Porthos's heart sank at the words, but he felt a surge of gratitude at the transparent certainty in Aramis's voice. There was not a doubt in his mind that Porthos would recover.

"Very well. I can give you at least a week of leave, Aramis. After that, I'll try to keep you on light duties until Porthos recovers."

"You all sound very sure I will," Porthos murmured, his voice rough with gratitude at the hope they were nurturing in his breast.

A heavy hand dropped to his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "I expect to see you back at the garrison before we've had time to enjoy the peace and quiet," Treville told him. "Now I'd best get to the trial."

Porthos mumbled a farewell as the captain left. The bed dipped as Aramis dropped down beside him, pressed close to his side.

"If you really don't wish to walk any more for the time being, I could read to you," he suggested softly.

"I haven't got many books," Porthos said doubtfully.

Aramis's soft chuckle rumbled through him. "I had D'Artagnan fetch some from my lodgings."

Porthos smiled at last, a weight lifting from his spirit. "Go on, then," he murmured, wrapping an arm about Aramis's waist and pulling him onto his lap as he shifted to sit with the headboard at his back. "Read me a story."

Aramis curled against him, stretching out to grab a book, and then his voice began to fill Porthos's head with all the images his eyes couldn't see.

* * *

The mornings were the worst. No matter what he had told himself the night before, he could never hold back the hope that this time, when he opened his eyes, he'd be able to see Aramis lying beside him. And every morning, the blackness crushed him anew.

They'd fallen into a routine of sorts. Every morning Aramis would ask how he felt, and the edge of hope in his voice cut at Porthos like a knife, but he couldn't bring himself to quash it. He'd struggle with getting dressed on his own and putter around the room like a clumsy child. Aramis had been forced to move all easily breakable things to the cupboards, and yet he still tried to insist Porthos was doing well.

The problem was he didn't want to be doing well. He didn't want to learn to cope with the perpetual darkness. He had seen the blind beggars in the court, the ones who were really blind. He couldn't become like them, wretched and alone, dependent on the kindness of strangers for his very survival.

Helpless.

He'd told Aramis to stop checking his eyes every day. He couldn't take the disappointment of hearing, day after day, that there seemed to be no change. He wondered if the blood in his eyes looked as frightening as it sounded.

Porthos rolled over on the bed, hoping to catch hold of Aramis and drive such thoughts from his head, but the space beside him was empty. He sat up, frowning, and realized someone was moving about the room.

"Oh," came Aramis's voice from somewhere near the door. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Porthos said carefully, wishing he could see him as he rolled his legs off the bed and stood. Footsteps approached and took his hand, guiding him over to the wardrobe, and he fought the urge to growl. He hated needing Aramis's help, but he couldn't refuse it, either.

"What's goin' on?" he asked gruffly as he fumbled with ties he couldn't see, trying to lace up his breeches on his own.

Aramis was silent for a long moment. "A message came this morning," he said, his voice sounding too controlled. "Treville wants me at the garrison."

Porthos inhaled sharply, reaching out for something to anchor himself against. He'd known it was coming. Aramis couldn't waste his time, sitting here all day with him, when there was Musketeer business to attend to.

The world was moving on without him.

"I'm going to tell him it's too soon," he said softly, and Porthos felt a hand on his shoulder.

He took a deep breath and shook his head, every instinct screaming at him to accept the lifeline, to do anything to keep Aramis here with him, but he couldn't do that. He couldn't make him stay just because he didn't want to be alone.

"No, you won't," he said with all the strength he could muster. "It's been a week, Aramis. My head is healed. I c'n walk without fallin' over. You got more important things to do than nurse me."

He knew Aramis was opening his mouth, preparing to object, so he cut him off, refusing to allow Aramis to change his mind. "You know I'm right. Just because I'm useless doesn't mean Treville can afford to let you be."

"You are not useless," Aramis said, and Porthos almost took a step back at the ferocity of the words. They sparked through him like fire. "You are not useless, Porthos. Never say that again."

Despite himself, Porthos lips crept into a grateful smile. Perhaps if Aramis could believe it so fervently, it might one day be true.

"Alright," he said gently, hands finding Aramis's hips through muscle memory alone. He was grateful for that, at least. His body remembered what his eyes couldn't see, like exactly where Aramis's waist would be in relation to his own, or where his to find his lips.

Aramis stepped into his embrace with a sigh, and Porthos found himself feeling a bit guilty. He was so wrapped up in his own worries that he'd never once thought of the strain this would be putting on his lover. He couldn't stop being blind, but he didn't have to be an ass about it.

"Hopefully I've just come up on the duty roster for the palace," Aramis murmured, burying his face against Porthos's neck.

Porthos hummed in assent but couldn't help thinking that Treville wouldn't be calling him in for anything so simple. He had a feeling this was a much bigger mission.

Aramis pressed a kiss to his neck and drew back. "I'll be home soon," he said, voice heavy with regret and something that sounded worryingly like exhaustion. "You'll be alright for a few hours?"  
Porthos swallowed a snappish remark and forced a smile. "Course I will."

Aramis huffed a soft laugh and pressed another kiss to his lips before drawing away. He heard footsteps approach the door, heard the creak as it opened and shut, and then Aramis was gone.

He stayed where he stood for several long minutes, trying to push away the thoughts circling his head about the futility of hope and the likelihood of abandonment. At last he reached out a hand for the wall and followed it with stumbling steps back to the bed. He dropped heavily onto it and sat there, head cradled in his hands, palms rubbing against the soft linen of the bandage.

This was just the beginning. Treville was going to start giving Aramis missions again, and little by little he would lose him to his duty. Aramis wouldn't mean to leave him, he knew that at least, but he wouldn't have a choice. Eventually he'd come to a point where the strain of caring for a helpless blind man would become unsustainable. And he would pull away.

Porthos clenched his hands into fists. Better to resign himself to his fate now.

There was no way to track the time in his condition, so he nearly leapt out of his skin when the door banged open.

"Aramis?" he asked cautiously.

A heavy sigh was his response. A moment later the bed dipped beside him, Aramis's shoulder pressing against his own.

"Where's he sendin' you, then?" he asked quietly.

"The estate of some noble two days outside of Paris." Aramis's voice was thick with remorse, with an edge of guilt that Porthos hated hearing. "The king is gifting him with a pair or prize pistols for some nonsense achievement and has specifically requested I go along to demonstrate their quality. Athos and D'Artagnan too."

"Oh," said Porthos, and really, what more was there to say. There was no way Aramis could get out of this, not if the king himself had asked for him. "When do you leave?"

Aramis's voice was almost too soft to hear. "An hour."

Porthos tipped his head back, trying to breathe around the anger and panic and fear in his throat.

"I'm sor-" Aramis began, but Porthos rose to his feet jerkily, cutting him off.

"We'd best get you packed, then," he said calmly. "I c'n fold things if you hand them to me."

"Porthos…"

"Don't," he said, hating the brittle edge to his own voice. "You gotta go. So don't. Don't apologize."

The bed creaked as Aramis rose to join him. He gathered his things in silence but for the occasional rustle while Porthos mechanically folded anything he was given, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Aramis would be gone for nearly a week.

Finally it was done, and all that was left was to say goodbye. "Constance has promised to come by," Aramis said, the tension evident in his voice. "Do some cooking, I suppose. And I'll ride back as soon as the presentation is over. Treville gave us permission already."

Porthos nodded mutely, making no move to close the gap he knew lay between them. Aramis sigh verged on pained, and his heart clenched in agony, but he had to maintain the distance. It would just make it so much harder later on if he didn't.

"Take care of yourself," Aramis murmured, stepping in to place a brief kiss against his cheek. "I love you." Then he was gone.

Porthos sat back down on the bed and let darkness consume him.

* * *

Constance came by every morning and evening. He tried to be cheerful and attentive to her conversation, but he knew by the end of the first day that he wasn't fooling her. She didn't push him, though, and he found himself looking forward to her visits for no other reason than that he didn't have to try so hard pretending to be okay.

He spent the days wandering the room, pacing it out until he knew where everything was and could walk around without bumping into things. He found his sword in the closet and managed to sharpen it without cutting off a finger, which lifted his spirits a bit.

All the same, the days had dragged by with agonizing slowness, and it was a constant fight to stave off the depression that crept into the corners of his mind.

Five nights after Aramis had left, Porthos was dozing on the bed, feeling pleasantly full from the dinner he'd shared with Constance and less dispirited than was usual lately. He was on the verge of dropping off entirely when footsteps pounded heavily on the stairs.

He sat bolt upright, excitement flashing through him at the thought of Aramis, home at last. He clambered off the bed, all thoughts of distancing himself forgotten.

The door flew open and he startled slightly, unprepared for the violent sound.

"Aramis?" he asked, confusion seeping into his tone.

"Porthos."

He stumbled forward, fear pulsing through him suddenly, because that was Athos, _Athos_ , and where was Aramis?

"What happened?" he croaked even as he heard fresh steps on the stairs, slower and dragging.

"We were ambushed on the way home. Bandits" Athos's voice was grim as he stepped forward and grabbed Porthos's forearm in a tight grasp. "Aramis took a bullet."

"Where?" he hissed, but Athos had released him and was pushing him aside, and the voices at the door were asking 'where?' with breathless voices, as if carrying something heavy, and he wanted to rush forward, but he couldn't _see_.

"On the bed," Athos ordered as still more footsteps echoed up the stairs.

"I've found the surgeon," D'Artagnan's voice cried, and then there were more orders as whoever had been carrying Aramis left the room and the surgeon stepped up. Past caring about his dignity, Porthos stumbled forward, reaching blindly until he found the bed post, but when he lowered his hand towards where he knew Aramis's must be, the surgeon whacked it aside.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away and pressed him into a chair as Athos murmured, "Let him work."

Everything in Porthos was screaming to disregard that order. He couldn't see the damage, couldn't watch to make sure that bastard was doing a good job sewing him up, and now he couldn't even hold his hand?

Athos must have sensed his distress, for the hand returned, a comforting weight on his shoulder.

"Where?" he asked, his voice catching in his throat.

"Shoulder," Athos said tiredly. "We bound it as best we could, but he couldn't sew it with his left hand, so we had to come back. Fever started just outside the city. Hasn't woken since."

"How bad?"

Athos's hesitation terrified him to his core. "Not good."

Porthos didn't ask any more questions.

All he could think about was how cold he had been before Aramis left, how bloody ungrateful and distant. He'd thought he was protecting himself from future loss, but he hadn't shielded himself from this, and the pain was all the worse knowing Aramis must have thought Porthos angry at him for leaving.

He didn't know how long it was before the surgeon finally spoke again. "I've done all I can. The wound is clean and sewn. Keep his fever down and he should pull through."

Porthos let out an explosive breath and heard D'Artagnan's relieved sigh from across the room. As soon as the surgeon left he rose to his feet and crossed to the bed, glad now he had taken the time to learn the room.

A chair scraped behind him and then Athos pushed him gently down to sit beside the bed. He reached out blindly, his fingers brushing against overly warm skin, and he followed it until his fingers found Aramis's own.

"Porthos, I need to leave," Athos said quietly. He sounded as terrible as Porthos felt. "Someone needs to warn the king that the route home is unsafe."

Porthos's mind felt blanketed by a haze of guilt, but he shook himself out of it long enough to murmur, "You ain't goin' alone. Take D'Artagnan."

"One of us should stay here," Athos said wearily.

"No. No way you're goin' by yourself through an area full o' bandits. Take 'im. Between me an' Constance, we can get 'im sorted."

He could feel Athos's hesitation, but shattered as he was he was not going to back down. Aramis was already injured. He couldn't bear for anyone else to get hurt.

"Very well. We will spend the night here, if you don't mind, and leave first thing in the morning."

Porthos nodded mutely and listened to the sounds of his brothers making themselves comfortable on the floor as he clung to Aramis's limp fingers.

Only when the sounds ceased did he lower his head to rest on the bed beside Aramis's hand and whisper a litany of apologies into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo that was actually unexpected. None of this was in my original outline for this story. Does it work? Let me know in the reviews!
> 
> One part to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the final part! I set out with this prompt expecting to bang out 2,000 words or so and instead wrote this angsty behemoth. Hope you've all enjoyed! I'm now working on a ridiculously fluffy oneshot to deal with all the angst, so I'll try to get that up sometime soon.

Porthos had no way of knowing when he'd fallen asleep, or how long he'd slept for. His head was resting uncomfortably on his folded arms, propped against the side of the bed. Snoring rose from somewhere behind him, letting him know one of his brothers was still in the room.

The sleeper snorted and he allowed a grin to break through the worry still gripping him. Athos, then. Perhaps D'Artagnan had gone to visit Constance.

He shifted off the bed, neck cracking painfully, and was just about to sit back when Aramis's fingers tightened around his own.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. "Aramis?" he asked softly. "You awake?"

This time a groan accompanied the squeeze. "Hey." Aramis's voice was faint and he sounded exhausted, but Porthos couldn't fight back his grin at hearing him awake.

"Hey yourself," he replied, his free hand tracing up Aramis's arm until his fingers found his cheek, stroking the skin gently. "How do you feel?"

He heard cloth rustling as Aramis tried to shift on the bed, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Lie still, you idiot," he chided, letting his hand fall to the side of Aramis's neck. "You've got a hole in your shoulder."

"Ah, now I remember," Aramis muttered, sounding more put out than pained. Porthos grinned at the petulant tone, the familiarity of the routine easing some of the guilt still raging in his chest.

"So, how'd the doctor do sewin' you up? I tried my best to look threatenin', but it's harder when I can't see who I'm glarin' at." He summoned a smile, hoping Aramis wouldn't see how hard it was for him to joke about this. He would do it, though, if he could keep Aramis from worrying about him when he should be healing.

Aramis chuckled faintly, accepting the lame attempt, and Porthos's smile softened into something truer. "I think he's done well enough," Aramis murmured. "I can't get the bandage off one handed to look more closely."

"Ah, well," Porthos said uncomfortably, "Better wait till Athos wakes up." He tried unsuccessfully not to be bothered by how little use he could be to Aramis like this. "I can wake him now, if you like?"

"No, don't bother. Let him sleep." Aramis's voice sounded a bit raspy, and Porthos debated reaching it to see if Athos had left any water on the table beside the bed. Then he scowled, realizing he'd probably just knock it over with his blind fumbling.

"You look troubled," Aramis murmured, squeezing his fingers. "What's wrong?"

 _Well, I'm blind and useless and a pathetic excuse for a man, but other than that, everything's great_ , Porthos thought bitterly.

Aloud, he said, "I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"Before you left. I was…" he hesitated, seeking the right word, "-cold."

"Don't fret about it, _querido_." Aramis twisted his hand slightly so he could lace his fingers through Porthos's. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't," he growled, losing hold on the frustration coiled within him. "You forgivin' me doesn't make it okay. I'm mad all the time and I'm takin' it out on you. That ain't right!"

"Porthos, I understand," Aramis began, but a harsh cough cut him off. Porthos tensed, on the verge of searching for water, sight be damned, when the snoring from behind cut off abruptly. He heard the footsteps approach, and then Athos's soft voice ordering Aramis to drink. After a moment the coughing stopped.

"Thank you, _mon cher_ ," Aramis rasped.

"You should be resting." Porthos could _feel_ the glare the accompanied those words.

"We were just discussing something-"

"It's alright," Porthos said quickly, cutting him off. "You should rest."

He could sense Aramis watching him unhappily, but he didn't argue as Athos returned to his chair. Porthos felt as if the silence were pressing down on him, reminding him of his failures. For one terrible moment, his brain clutched at the thought that perhaps this was what it would be like to be deaf as well. Then a faint pressure on his fingers broke him from his reverie.

He cocked his head, waiting, and sure enough it came again: a gentle tug. He grinned ruefully, shaking his head. It appeared he was not going to be allowed to wallow.

"All right, all right, I'm comin'," he muttered fondly, carefully patting the mattress before him to map out the vacant space in his head. Once he was satisfied with the lay of the land, he rose and moved slowly and carefully onto the bed.

It was difficult enough to move around with Aramis in the bed while blind. Knowing he was injured made it a dozen times worse. More than once, his hand caught Aramis's side, eliciting hissed breaths, but each time Aramis's hand found his arm and tugged him again. He almost gave up entirely when his bumped Aramis's injured arm, winced at the muffled groan, but at last he found a position where he could settle himself on the bed.

He wrapped an arm carefully around his lover and pulled him close, letting Aramis rest his head in the crook of his neck. Aramis nuzzled closer and drifted off almost at once, but Porthos knew already he wouldn't be following. He couldn't relax; he was too worried that he would bump Aramis's wound in the night and tear his stiches, or injure him further somehow. He didn't even dare hold him properly, arm resting gingerly around him since he couldn't see where exactly the wound was.

Aramis shifted in his sleep and Porthos froze, wondering if the new position was putting strain on the injury. Self-hatred was boiling like acid in his stomach. It wasn't enough to be useless as a Musketeer: he was useless as a lover, too.

And if he couldn't even do this, then what the hell could he do?

* * *

Aramis's restless shifting woke him the next morning. He lay still, hoping Aramis would find a comfortable position and settle down, until an elbow found his side.

"Oi!" he growled, remembering only at the last minute not to shove Aramis off him.

"Sorry, _mon cher_ ," Aramis murmured. Porthos tracked the sound of his voice and lifted a hand carefully to his face, breathing a sigh of relief when he found Aramis's skin a normal temperature. "I think I need to get up."

"Dunno if that's a good idea," Porthos muttered, a vision of Aramis falling because he couldn't see to catch him flashing behind his sightless eyes. "Is Athos still here?"

"He left when I woke up without a fever," Aramis said. "D'Artagnan was here as well. He said Constance would come by later, and I quote, 'Make sure I wasn't overtaxing myself in the foolish way Musketeers always do.' The lad had the gall to laugh at that."

Porthos chuckled, carefully pulling his arm free. He would've preferred Aramis continue resting until Constance arrived, but he knew there was little chance of that happening. Better he help him as best he could then let Aramis knock himself out doing something stupid on his own.

He sat up, yanking the bandage back up so it sat right around his eyes, and heard Aramis scrambling upright behind him. "Slowly," he growled when he heard a hiss of pain. "Why is it you never follow your own advice when you get injured?"

"I'm _fine_." Aramis's voice was laden with exasperation. "Please move so I can get out of this blasted bed."

"Thought you liked my bed," Porthos teased gently, the banter helping to alleviate his worries of the night before.

"Only when we are both in it willingly," Aramis huffed. "Not when I am a prisoner."

"You ain't a prisoner," Porthos snorted, but at last he obliged, shifting off the bed to hover uncertainly beside it. He heard Aramis's feet thump against the ground a moment before fingers tangled in his own.

"If you fall down I'm gonna be pissed," he warned, grasping Aramis's forearm as he rose. "I'm trustin' you here."

Aramis gave a huff of annoyance. "I just want to get to that mirror on the wall, _querido_. I'd like to see what that butcher did to my shoulder."

"It's cracked," Porthos muttered, wincing at the reminder that he'd failed to make sure the stitches were up to Aramis's standard.

"Yes, I know. Remind me how that happened, again." His voice had roughened considerably, but not with pain.

Porthos couldn't help but grin at the memory. "I seem to recall you wantin' to be up against the wall while I fucked you," he growled. "The mirror didn't take too kindly to that. You oughta buy me a new one."

Aramis laughed delightedly, leaning heavily on him as they made their way across the small room. Porthos chuckled as well, but his mirth faded quickly. Would he ever be able to do that again? What good was a blind man as a lover?

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost didn't realize they were approaching the wall until Aramis tugged on his arm. "Hold still while I check it, alright?" Aramis muttered, sounding distracted.

Porthos nodded, his head still full of thoughts of losing the uncontainable passion that was Aramis from his life. He'd never thought about what his blindness would do to that aspect of their relationship.

His heart pounded unpleasantly in his chest as he realized he wouldn't be able to do even a fraction of the things he once had in the bedroom. Aramis might take pity on him for a time, but how long would he be willing to shoulder all the work for so little reward?

Porthos was going to need someone to take care of him for the rest of his life. How long could Aramis persevere when Porthos couldn't even offer anything to soften the load? All his fears the day Aramis had been sent on the mission seemed to be rushing back at once, knocking the wind from his lungs. He had already lost his duty and his life as a soldier. He couldn't lose Aramis too.

Or worse, Aramis would work himself to exhaustion trying to care for him and get himself killed in battle because he wasn't caring for himself. No matter how Porthos looked at it, the future grew more and more grim.

Oh god. He was going to lose him.

A hand connected sharply with the side of his face and he jerked back, surprised to find himself on the floor. "Porthos, answer me!" Aramis was ordering, his voice just shy of terror once more.

"S-sorry," he choked out, his breath coming in harsh gasps as his heart attempted to hammer out of his chest. He was suddenly aware of the way Aramis's hands were fisted in the collar of his shirt. Had he been shaking him?

"What happened?" Aramis asked, not releasing his grip. "Was it your head? Did it hurt?"

Porthos shook his head mutely, not sure how to explain the crippling fear that had gripped his heart. He felt weak, helpless, and utterly lost, as if the panic that flooded him had been a physical thing.

"No, I just- I thought-" He couldn't seem to get the words out. "Let me up."

Aramis didn't move. "Thought what?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm enough to tell Porthos he wouldn't leave without a satisfactory answer.

Porthos blew out a heavy breath, fighting down a surge of rage. He didn't want to get in a fight. Aramis didn't deserve his anger, he didn't deserve any of this, but Porthos felt out of control. Thoughts he'd forced himself to repress seemed to be bursting within his mind. He took a deep breath in, trying to settle himself.

To his shame, the air seemed to catch in his throat, and what came out could only be described as a whine.

A shudder rocked his body, and then another. He tried to pull free of Aramis's grasp, hating that he was showing such weakness. Hurt pumped through him when Aramis let him go, but then an arm wrapped around his waist and another around his neck, drawing him inexorably forward until his face met Aramis's chest.

It was as if the simple gesture had unleashed a flood within him. A sob ripped its way from his throat with a violence that shocked him.

His arms rose of their own accord to wrap around Aramis's waist, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline in a storm at sea. He buried his face against Aramis's shirt and let the fear and grief wash through him. All the emotions that had been roiling inside him: pain, anger, fear; and he hadn't allowed himself to grieve, to face what had happen and understand, truly, that this might be his life now.

Aramis held him as he fell apart.

Eventually he quieted. He could feel the thumping of Aramis's heart through his chest, and the sound soothed the wrenching sobs. He wanted to sit back, reclaim some dignity, but he felt utterly drained. He couldn't remember ever crying like that before.

Porthos lifted a hand to rub at the bandage around his eyes. It was unpleasantly wet and cold against his skin, and after a moment Aramis shifted, fingers reaching up to undo the knot holding it to his head.

He sighed his thanks when it slipped free, tipping his head to find a more comfortable positon. He drew back sharply when Aramis let out a soft hiss.

"Shit. Sorry, did I hit your wound?" he asked, his voice rough and cracked.

"It's nothing."

"Liar," he growled wearily, scrunching his eyes tightly closed. He thought for a moment that he saw spots dancing against his eyelids, but then Aramis shifted and he put the thought aside. "Get back up on the bed."

"Come with me," Aramis said stubbornly.

Porthos sighed and nodded, too exhausted and ashamed of himself to argue. He allowed Aramis to lead him back to the bed and settle them both under the blankets.

He lay silently for a long moment before the words tore out of him. "Sorry about that, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't you dare apologize," Aramis said fiercely. "Don't you dare. Keeping that all inside must have been killing you."

"Shouldn't have broken down like that," Porthos muttered, shame still creeping through him. "It was weak."

Aramis made an irritated noise. "Is it weak to wake up screaming because your nightmares are full of death?" he asked, voice hard and matter of fact. "Is it weak to be unable to sleep in forests in the winter?"

"Course not!" Porthos growled, a little stunned at the violence of his own reply. A moment later he sensed Aramis's victorious smirk as clearly as if he had seen it.

"Then it is not weak to be afraid of this," he said calmly.

Porthos rolled onto his side, pressing against Aramis's body. "Do you really think there's still a chance it ain't permanent?" he whispered, impossible hope blooming in his chest.

"Yes, I do." The certainty in Aramis's voice nearly caused him to cry anew. Swallowing the urge, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Exhaustion overcame him, driving him further into Aramis's warm embrace.

He fell asleep to the feel of fingers stroking down the side of his face.

* * *

When he awoke, he could tell by Aramis's breathing that his lover was already awake. "Constance came by while you were asleep," Aramis murmured, fingers skimming along his jaw. "She gave me the quietest scolding I have ever received."

Porthos chuckled, wishing he'd heard it. He lifted his head from where it had been resting on Aramis's chest and, for the first time in nearly two weeks, opened his eyes, trying to blink away the unpleasant, glued together sensation.

Aramis's gasp had him jumping back convinced he'd inadvertently hurt the other man. Somehow. Without moving.

"What? What?" he asked anxiously.

"Your eyes," Aramis breathed.

"What about 'em?" Anxiety was clawing a hole in his stomach, but he kept his voice steady. "Worse?" He wasn't sure how they could get worse than appearing to be bleeding from within, but he couldn't dismiss the fear.

"No," Aramis murmured, something like wonder in his tone. "They look better. Much better. The blood is gone. Hang on; it's too dark to see properly. I need to light a candle."

Porthos didn't protest as Aramis clambered awkwardly over him, even though he knew the other man should still be resting. He was too eager to know what qualified as _better_.

He heard a few muffled curses and then a triumphant little huff. "Turn around and let me look at them in the light," Aramis ordered. He obeyed, rolling onto his other side and sitting up.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

"Aramis," he whispered, his voice strangled by a hope that seemed to clutch him by the throat. "I c'n see you."

The indistinct shadow that was Aramis jerked suddenly closer. "You can?" he asked, his voice trembling with excitement. "How well?"

"Not- not well," he muttered, blinking furiously. "But I c'n see a sort of shadowy thing, which I think is you, and I c'n see a haze that might be the candle?"

"Over here?" Aramis asked, and the shadow waved a blurred appendage in the direction of the haze.

"Yeah," he replied shakily. "Yeah, over there."

Aramis's laugh was like sunlight streaming out past thunderclouds, and suddenly the shadow-shape launched forward and crashed against him.

"Oi! Don't hurt yourself," Porthos growled, but his own lips were pulling up at the corners, hope and relief making him lightheaded.

"You can see, _mon cher_!" Aramis cried, and then Aramis's lips were on his own, kissing him as if his life depended on it, and Porthos was more than happy to respond in kind.

They only broke apart when they heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Two pairs," Aramis whispered against his lips. "Think they're back?"

Porthos grinned. "Lemme try to guess which one's come through first, yeah?" Aramis tried to shift out of his lap, but Porthos just clamped his fingers more tightly around Aramis's hips, chuckling. It was nothing their brother's hadn't seen before.

The door opened quietly, and he looked in the direction of the doorway to see two shadows enter at once. The one on the right was slightly taller.

"Athos," he murmured, staring pointedly at the left shadow before shifting his gaze to the right. "D'Artagnan."

"Can you see us?" D'Artagnan's voice was high with sudden excitement as the right hand shadow bounded forward. Athos followed more slowly, saying nothing.

"A bit," Porthos said, grinning from ear to ear. "You just look like a big shadowy streak right now."

"But you can see us?" Athos asked intently.

"Yeah, I can."

The shadow that was Athos sat down heavily into what Porthos suspected was one of his chairs. "Thank god." The relief in his tone was dizzying. He said nothing else, stoic as always, but Porthos could almost feel the waves of gratitude and happiness rolling across the room.

"Is it certain then? He will regain full vision?" Athos asked, actively trying to strangle the hope seeping into his tone.

"The king's physician said that if the blood cleared and vision began to return, then it was almost certain to heal entirely," Aramis told him eagerly. "It may take a another week or more to return to full vision, but now that it has begun to return, there is nothing to suggest it shouldn't return fully."

Porthos grinned and buried his face against Aramis's chest, hoping anyone who saw his glistening eyes would blame it on the healing process.

"That's wonderful news!" D'Artagnan cried, still bounding around like an overzealous shadow puppy.

"Perhaps you should go and tell the Captain," Athos muttered when the shadowy blob almost collided with his own.

"Oh, right, of course!" D'Artagnan babbled. "I'll tell the Captain, and Constance, and the whole garrison!" The blob moved to the door and vanished.

Aramis chuckled affectionately, nuzzling against Porthos's neck. As if only just noticing his perch, Athos suddenly asked dryly, "Isn't that a bit more activity than you should be partaking in?"

Porthos winced at the reminder, suddenly worried Aramis might be overexerting himself, but Aramis only laughed.

"I am fine, _mon cher_ ," he said lightly. "The wound is not bad. I was only in such a bad way because I was exhausted. Thankfully, that has been cured."

The shadow-Athos rose. "In that case, I shall take my leave and go make my report to the Captain as well. He should be back from the palace by now."

"You don't want to stay?" Porthos asked, a bit surprised that Athos would leave so soon after receiving the good news.

He sensed Athos casting him one of his signature glares. "With Aramis's new-found 'energy' and you regaining the use of your eyes, no I would rather not be in your _bedroom_ at the moment," he muttered. "I'll come by for dinner."  
He left without another word.

Porthos stared at the place where the shadow had disappeared for a long moment, puzzling over the odd statement until Aramis chuckled darkly against his neck, pressing a kiss to his skin.

Oh.

"I've missed you, _querido_ ," Aramis murmured, shifting pointedly in his lap. "Two weeks is a long time to wait."

 _Oh_.

He grinned and tipped his head in the direction of the fuzzy outline of Aramis's hair, pressing his lips to his lover's temple.

"Maybe we oughta make up for lost time," he whispered, dipping lower to capture Aramis's lips in a kiss.

Aramis's enthusiastic hum of agreement was music to his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know in the comments!
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr as lancelot-is-flying-the-tardis


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